


The Traps You Set

by bloodofthepen



Series: Sum Ergo Sum [8]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2524667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofthepen/pseuds/bloodofthepen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" They had commandeered the largest bench in the tavern in lieu of a war table, map stretched a little too large for the aged wood, Cassandra bearing down on it like some great, irritated predator. “The Templars are coming out of the north, and a small horde of abominations has been spotted to the east. We’re on level ground here, completely exposed. We have two options..." "<br/>---<br/>Sometimes, things are simply known. Sometimes, learning requires mistakes.<br/>And sometimes, actions leave you wondering indefinitely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They had commandeered the largest bench in the tavern in lieu of a war table, map stretched a little too large for the aged wood, Cassandra bearing down on it like some great, irritated predator.

“The rogue Templars are coming out of the north, and a small horde of abominations has been spotted to the east. We’re on level ground here, completely exposed. We have two options: we can attempt to evacuate the village and give them time to flee by holding this position as long as possible. Or, you can move ahead, toward our original destination, while the rest of us remain here to split into multiple factions, evacuating the village and leaving false trails to spare as many lives as possible. The Templars, of course, won’t stop once they realize the apos—the _mages_ are gone. The best we can hope for is confusion to cover our tracks: that the abominations and the Templars will arrive at approximately the same time.” Her gauntleted fingers traced the contours of the map. “South-west is our best chance.”

Leona frowned across the table. “We’ll be hunted like dogs or slaughtered. I want to lose as few as possible.”

“Inquisitor, we have only six men aside from ourselves, little better than town militia. We _cannot_ hold this plain—there are no walls, no hills.”

The mage’s fingers tightened at her belt. “So even if we began evacuations now, the Templars _and_ the abominations could see us and follow immediately.”

“That is why we would remain here to keep the Templars back, give the refugees time.”

“The ten of us?”

Cassandra averted her gaze. “Seven or eight. You would have to move ahead—you must close the breaches in the Veil.”

Leona peered down at the map, smoothed her hands across the crinkled surface. “ _How_ many Templars are there, exactly?”

“Fifty, at estimate.”

“And the abominations?”

“Perhaps fifteen.”

The mage dropped her arms to her sides, fingers twisting in the soft fabric of her sleeves. She tipped her head up to the hulking qunari at her side, hunched to avoid catching his horns in the rafters. “Bull, I suppose you volunteered to stay for this course of action?”

He opened his mouth to reply.

“ _I_ did.”

“Blackwall?”

The warrior in question stepped away from the wall. “Aye. I’ll be where I’m needed.”

“And I would guard your escape.” Iron bull nodded.

“It’s _suicide_ —both of you!” Leona’s eyes flicked between them. “Are you so willing to die and let the Templars trample your corpses as they catch up to the villagers—and me, since they’ll surely discover that I was here—anyway?”

Cassandra shook her head. “We can attempt to divert the paths—”

“There’s a third option.”

She pursed her lips. “What would you suggest, Inquisitor?”

Leona frowned. “There are six militiamen, four of us— _don’t argue, just listen, please_ —and fifteen apostates. Add to that maybe twenty or twenty-five able-bodied villagers with the motivation to defend their homes. Our odds just increased.” Leona danced her fingers across the village’s image on the map. “We use the time we might have had for organizing an evacuation to fortify the area with available materials, magic. If the abominations aren’t moving as fast as the Templars, we lure them in—and now, odds are even: we stand about forty-five strong, and the fifteen abominations make sixty adversaries against the incoming Templars. We get the children and those unable to fight out of the village, let them head for the city, while we stand our ground. With any luck, casualties will be at a minimum, and if we need to, we can always use the confusion caused by the abominations to escape.”

Cassandra leaned across the table, brows drawn tightly together. “You believe I didn’t already consider that?”

Leona straightened, tucking her arms into her sleeves. “I didn’t hear it in our list of available possibilities. It’s an option, is it not?”

“I deemed it too risky. These aren’t _soldiers_ —they’re farmers, merchants… hunters _if we’re fortunate_. We cannot lose you here when the Veil is still torn. The best chance any of us have is to flee.”

The mage frowned. “The best chance you have for me, you mean. I won’t have anyone run down by the Templars for my sake. We have a true chance if we would only take it! These people don’t want to leave their village any more than I want them slaughtered—they’ll fight with everything they have. We’ll be smart, Cassandra: magic, morale, and tactics.”

The Warden shook his head. “Those people will lose heart as soon as the abominations come in sight. It happens with the Darkspawn—it’ll happen here.”

“Listen to Blackwall if you won’t listen to me: this is foolishness.”

“And the abominations won’t just make adversaries for the Templars—they’ll come for us as well,” rumbled Iron Bull. “It makes sixty against the Templars—but it also makes sixty-five against us.”

“We’ll have the advantage of fortification.”

Cassandra struck the table with a gauntleted fist. “ _Enough!_ This isn’t a fort, Trevelyan. This is a dusty little village on a _flat plain_. We will all be killed.”

“At least this way you have _chance_ of survival! The refugees might barely outrun the Templars since they’re slower-moving, but the Templars have discipline and endurance the refugees don’t. They could be slaughtered in their camps in the night while your corpse is rotting in this _dusty little village_. Maybe they outrun the Templars. But can they outrun abominations that don’t require rest and sustenance beyond blood and lyrium?”

“My life is forfeit,” the Seeker growled. “It is your duty to be responsible with yours, and it is mine to make sure you set Thedas to rights.” She pushed off the table. “We are done here.”

Leona followed Cassandra’s steps to the door with her eyes, waiting until the warrior’s hand touched the latch. “You can’t do that if you’re dead.”

She froze, turned. “ _Inquisitor?_ ”

The mage shrugged. “You can’t make sure I fix Thedas if you’re dead.” Her lips curled in a half-smile. “And if you try to make Iron Bull carry me out of here… you won’t be able to control my reaction, either. None of you are Templars.”

Rage drew the color from Cassandra’s cheeks. “You would dare—”

“I just want us to have the best chance.” Leona left the table to fetch her staff from where it lay, propped in the corner, silver blade hidden beneath its leather sheath. “I don’t need anybody dying for me.” She schooled her features into a grin, leaning on the comforting length in her palms. “ _Now_ we’re done here. Blackwall, Bull—round up whoever you can to start fortifying the village square. Anyone who has weapons should fetch them, and anyone who doesn’t should fashion or find some. I’m sure even a place as small as this has a blacksmith. And Cassandra, you and I can speak to the mages.”

* * *

Leona’s first stop was the stable as Cassandra sought out the mages that had taken refuge here. Originally, the Inquisition party had stopped here as a recruitment attempt—Leona extended a chance of a safe place to sleep and an opportunity to aid… well, the world. Missives had gone to the mages’ rebel alliance as well, and to this point, responses had been tentative but favorable. Fifteen mages hiding in a farming village was small in comparison, but it was on the way to another, higher-priority destination (as most of her advisors put it), and she could not in good conscience pass by without so much as an attempt.

This left her gently petting her horse’s dark, golden snout, wondering whether or not to send the gelding home before battle, and perhaps just a little concerned that she should have selected a more intimidating mount for this venture. “You’re a sweetheart,” she told him, fetching a carrot from one of the pouches at her waist.

The tall bay stomped and flicked his ears.

“I know you disagree, being bred for breaking bones and biting ears and all, but it doesn’t mean I can’t spoil you.”

Her teeth clacked painfully together as he tossed his head _right_ against her jaw. “Agh—all right, all right.” Leona offered the carrot and kept her fingers out of harm’s way, and absently rubbed her cheek. “If you don’t want to be nice, how do you feel about stomping some Templar skulls?”

Dark eyes gleamed as though he understood exactly what she suggested.

“No—you should really lay off Cullen for a day or two. I’m talking dozens. Twenties of Templars. Ones that need their faces _irreparably smashed_. Or, I can send you back to the Keep and you can get a nice bath.”

He snorted.

“The mages are assembled, Inquisitor.” Leona attempted not to wince at the title as Cassandra stopped just inside the stable. “You should keep the horse; we may yet need to flee.”

She sighed in the heavy, straw-and-muck musty air. “Answers that question.” She stretched on tip-toe to scratch the gelding’s ears. “Be ready, boy.”

* * *

The fading daylight saw the party directing and working alongside some thirty new individuals to construct fortifications. Pits filled with tinder and dry straw, makeshift pikes driven into the ground between buildings, sharp and deadly defense against unwary attackers, low barricades, and a shallow, empty moat were among the quickly-handled projects.

Leona instructed the younger mages in runes, crouched at the bottom of the shallow moat—only three feet deep and as long as four men stretched on their bellies. She drew a stone from one of the satchels at her belt. “The power of an element or action resides in its symbol.” She flashed a grey stone, etched with careful, black ash, triangular in shape, with harsh, curving tendrils. “Fire. The smallest spark of magic can be used to trigger the dormant power—and spring the trap. I carry these with me, but tonight, we’ll draw them outside the perimeter, etch them in the soil, carve them into wall and stone, and the magic will be just as effective.”

One of the older students, a dark human with serious, tired eyes, asked, “Did you learn these runes in the Circle?”

“No.” The boy was unsurprised, but some of the others shifted curiously. Leona nodded. “I know some runic magic is taught in the Circle, as I—ah— _borrowed_ a few books in my time, but I’ve never actually been in the Circle. Most of the runes I’ve learned from artefacts, and some from the Dalish.” But now was not the time for those stories, even when six pairs of eyes glittered and as two of the older students crossed their arms defensively over their chests.

“An _apostate?_ The Inquisitor is an _apostate?_ ” The eldest—a woman nearly Leona’s age, hooded, pale brows drawn tight—seemed affronted.

She lifted a careless shoulder and offered a smile. “Well, we’re either all apostates now—or we’re all _mages_.”

The first boy shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

Leona raised a hand. “It _always_ matters. The world gives language power and language returns that power tenfold: it’s the magic of runes, but also the magic of words.” She turned to each of them, frightened, weary, robes travel-stained. “What you call yourself will give you power. What will it be?”

There was a flame that gleamed in the eyes of a young woman, perhaps seventeen. She stepped forward. “Mage.”

The boy nodded. “I agree, Inquisitor. They want to call us apostates, I say there’s no time for it.”

She resisted the urge to wave off the title physically. “Trevelyan,” she offered. “Leona.”

The older students balked at that.

“We’re going to be fighting together—I’d rather we called each other by name.” A dazzling smile.

The first nodded, the corner of his mouth sneaking up. “Tytus.”

“Rina.” Her dark eyes did not lose their excited edge. “Can we try the runes?”

* * *

Rina’s strokes were graceful and quick, with chalk and charcoal and salt and stave alike as she etched each new symbol. “I always liked runes,” she confessed. “But there weren’t many books, and I’d only just completed my Harrowing when…” The girl frowned. “Will we kill them?”

Leona surveyed her handiwork: a sweeping ice rune etched into one of the makeshift barriers. She could feel the sealed power radiate from the dark rings, a sharp vibration beneath her skin. “As many as we possibly can. That I can promise you.” A wicked grin captured her lips.

“Good.” Sweat glistened on Tytus’ dark forehead. He leaned on a simple staff, likely given to him as a newly-named mage. “And they can’t take the power from these?”

“They can dispel magic as many times as they like, but the runes will never lose their potency. But you have to be careful.” Leona traced the edge with her fingertips. It only takes a spark to set them off, but you need to make sure you have the magic necessary. Conserve your power, and the traps you set won’t betray you.”


	2. Chapter 2

They spotted the approaching army at dusk.

“Vashaden,” Iron Bull hissed, mighty arms crossing his chest. “They're moving too quickly.”

Leona lifted her robes and stepped up on the crate beside her, following his gaze across the plain, lit with the fading orange and rose of the sun’s last light. It gleamed on silver armor, casting painful spots across her eyes. She frowned. “We were supposed to have more time. What of the abominations?”

The qunari craned his neck, pacing to the east. “Just as quickly. An hour, two at most—they've spotted us, no question.”

“Shit.” Leona’s fingers tightened around her staff. “Have them finish up here, then meet Blackwall, Cassandra, and I at the tavern.”

He nodded and set to bellowing orders as the mage leapt off her crate and edged through the narrowed streets, around barriers, skirting runes, until she found the Seeker instructing three men in shield-work.

She caught sight of Leona’s approach immediately. “How soon?”

“An hour, maybe more.”

“Maker preserve us.” She returned a stern gaze to the group, wooden, iron-ribbed shields half-raised. “Take positions.”

They scurried off to the perimeter.

“Blackwall is inside—we can confer with him until Iron Bull arrives.”

Leona moved to follow, but Cassandra’s eyes were fixed on a point just over her shoulder. She swung her head about, brow arched, to find Rina following, a guilty flush to her cheeks.

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t need help.”

She smiled. “Have you ever seen a horse up close?”

“No, ma’am.” The girl straightened, shifting grip on her staff. “Leona.”

“My horse is stabled in the barn—the last stall. There’s a boy hanging about there; tell him you’re to help ready my steed.”

The mage’s smile was almost as bright as it had been while etching her first rune. “Thank you!” Rina raced over the dusty street, nearly catching the hem of her robes on her feet at least three times before disappearing around the corner, mouse-brown braid trailing along behind.

Cassandra’s frown brought unyielding lines to her cheeks. “If you’re quite finished?”

But Leona smiled. “After you.” She used her free hands as she entered to pull the front of her robes up to discreet buttons on her belt, freeing her legs for wider movement, trousers and boots showing through the new window as the robe’s hem fluttered just below her waist. She rested her staff on the nearest table and drew her sleeves up under Cassandra’s steely gaze.

“Suppose she dies.”

Leona arched an eyebrow. “Suppose she doesn’t.”

Blackwall stretched the map over the table, carefully marking the changes they had made to fortify the town’s center,pointedly pretending not to hear even as the Seeker’s amber eyes flicked to him, then back to the woman in question who was calmly finishing her first sleeve.

Cassandra was suddenly so close Leona could smell steel and dust; she met the unrelenting gaze evenly. “Inquisitor, if she and the others fall, it will be your reckless plan that condemns them.”

The mage tied off the silver cord at her elbow. “And if they died following your plans, it would be my approval that condemned them. We have a chance, Cassandra, whether you believe it or not.” She stripped the leather from her blade, secured the sheath to the back of her belt, and hefted the staff carefully.

The Seeker shook her head, but said no more.

* * *

 

Leona took the reins from the stable boy—Trevor. His face was weathered and tan, grey eyes even; the only worry she could see was etched into the lines around his mouth. Rina’s showed in the shadow of her brow, but her hands were steady, wrapped around worn wood and leather. “Ready?” she asked them.

The pair nodded. “Thank you, my lady.” Trevor’s jaw was set, proud.

“Thank you.” Any stranger who could keep a warhorse calm deserved that pride, indeed. “Call me Leona, and once this is done, if you wish, you may accompany me to the keep.” She smiled, and gave a wink. “Both of you.”

“Inquisitor!”

She mounted the bay and nudged him to a trot, but not without reveling in the slow, ecstatic grins that resulted, wiping the lines from Trevor’s cheeks, and clearing the shadow that had fallen over Rina’s eyes.

* * *

 

The Inquisitor braced the bardiche-like staff beneath her arm, settled carefully in the saddle, boots snug in stirrups, heart thrumming against her chest. Mounted combat was not her first choice, but it gave a distinct advantage against foot-soldiers and made her visible to the villagers. It would do.

She and her companions stood abreast, heading their own small infantry just before the first set of traps. The last report guessed the small horde of abominations would arrive several minutes after the Templars—too late to do anything except pray the plan laid would be enough to hold against the full attention of the division.

Their commander rode a mighty, armored stallion, a flash of white and silver and crimson as he positioned himself parallel, just beyond the village outskirts. “Surrender the Inquisitor and the apostates and we will leave peacefully!” His voice rang across the fields, dark and empty as the midnight sky.

Leona drew herself taller in the saddle, tucked the next cool breath of damp, night air deep into her lungs. “I will surrender not a single mage! The villagers stand with us; return to your masters, Templars!”

Even at such a distance under only the light of the moon and flickering shadows of torches on both sides, she could see his shoulders shift, see as he nudged his horse in a tight, frustrated circle. “We will not be banished!”

She bared her teeth. “Leave this place, or you incur the wrath of the Inquisition!”

“So be it! We will raze this village and every enemy of the Chantry found within!”

“WE WILL NOT FALL!”

She could hear the creak of leather behind and beside her, the rasp of steel as it echoed across the fields.

“You make your own grave!” A gauntleted hand stretches to the starlit sky, but the commander did not turn to face his Templars. “SPARE NONE. SLAUGHTER EVERY APOSTATE AND TRAITOR COWERING BEHIND THOSE WALLS. BRING ME THE INQUISITOR!”

Leona nudged her mount, and looked over the faces visible, the resolve fleeing from armed limbs. “You see what they are? No better than the brigands you hang in the square! Your arms are strong, your hearts stronger: WE WILL WIN THIS NIGHT! IN THIS TALE, WE BECOME IMMORTAL. FIGHT FOR YOUR HOMES!”

There came a rallying cry, and Leona almost wished she had time to take in Cassandra’s no-doubt impressive roll of the eyes.

* * *

 

The first waves were easy to see, to mark, to track, to command. A row of Templars would charge each line of defense, to be beaten back by minor runes, shields, and the Inquisitor’s own companions.

Six waves beat them back to the trench, and Leona’s bay cleared it easily, her ears filtering out the sound of screams, the clash of steel. She listened to the wind across her cheeks, the Bull’s bellowed commands, the rhythm of hooves, the crackle of magic. Her eyes caught Tytus crouched at the ready behind a low wall, and Leona gave a single nod.  
Flames split the Templar ranks, red-hot orange tongues springing from the largest runes; ice pierces skin, stretching to the pale moon; lighting sinks into armor, sears flesh, melts bone.

She raised thanks to Andraste, the Maker, and—hell—if the Creators could hear her, praise be to all of them.

But this is where things fall into chaos.

The next wave is less an assault than a breaking of rank, a scramble to escape the treacherous fields and streets. Leona catches her blade at the crook of a half-burned Templar’s shoulder, slicing between steel and skin, grinding on bone. Momentum carries her forward and up as her mount strikes another down, crushing his helm beyond repair.

There are still screams, and she does not yet realize their pitch carries beyond a simple battle’s carnage.

Flames, out of control, brush the sky as thatch burns and streets swelter. Panicked Templars bring the fire further and further to the village square, even as mages attempt to douse the worst; the sticky, crawling sensation of twenty Cleanse invocations creeps through the alleys, and the flames continue to burn. Leona sweeps her fingers in a neat arc, weaving gentle figures in the air even as she knows the Cleanse is approaching. A barrier shimmers in the air around her and holds—just barely.

It is the strangled cry that alerts her to the presence of the third faction, a gurgle that turns her stomach; her eyes fix themselves upon a corpse.

A boy, no older than eighteen, with grey eyes that stare unseeing at the flame-licked night, a corpse that forces itself standing on twisted legs and a back wrenched and bent at all unnatural angles.

Trevor.

Leona’s skin grows cold beneath her robes, blood hot under her skin. She flicks the reins, speeding her blade, and the wind caresses wet cheeks, muffles the sound of flesh and bone.

Its head rolls to the ground, and she wants to vomit.

She closes her fist around a ball of flame, and charges the fractured ranks, desperate, white-hot bolts of Smite lighting the air and chasing shadows even as the oily, oozing scent of demons eeks through the streets.

The world is purple and red and green and silver and grey.

She is a streak of arcane energy carving a path through the square.

And there is the Templar commander, bloody and soot-stained, rising above the tide of soldiers and corpses and smoke. Rina, in the midst of crimson flames, holds her ground as the Templar raises his blade.

But the staff is not strong enough, and he charges through splintered wood and bone even as the Inquisitor launches herself from the saddle, braced on stave and steel.

Cassandra’s warning cracks across the battlefield, sharp as thunder.

* * *

 

Her first memory is fingers fumbling at her belt when she finally cracks her eyes open, scent of smoke still coating her nose. There’s a lingering taste of bloody copper, and of elfroot, on her lips.

It is morning, grey and pale.

“Leona?” asks Cassandra, and the mage lifts her head just enough to catch a glimpse of the battle-bruised seeker before a massive hand pushes her back down.

“Survivors?” she croaks, finding the Iron Bull’s head high above her own. Her throat is raw, half-numb.

The qunari shakes his head. “We don't know.”

She struggles into a sitting position, frowning, and this time, Bull lets her. Leona finds Cassandra’s amber eyes. “Survivors?” she demands again.

“It is unlikely.”

The mage’s face does not crumple, but her shoulders sag under robes caked with ash, blood, and dust. She feels a chill under her skin, and reaches for the pouch at her waist. “What did you give me?”

“A healing potion,” replies Blackwall from behind, leaning against a stone, cradling his left arm to his chest, beard yet matted with debris.

Wordless, Leona extends a hand to Iron Bull.

He frowns, but retrieves an overlarge flask from his belt, and presses it into her open hand. She flicks it open, and gazes to the horizon.

They are seated on some distant hill. Only the smoke is visible, the village now a charred smear on the landscape, dead ashen black among rich brown and green. Leona takes a long pull from the flask, fiery liquid prickling some life back into her lips and chest. She returns it to the Bull, and reaches immediately into the satchel at her waist.

“Inquisitor?” says the Seeker.

But Leona unfolds a thin roll of leather to reveal a smattering of herbs. Next, a dark-wood pipe is lifted from another pocket, and she tips the curled, green leaves into the bowl.

Three brows arch, but no one speaks.

The mage presses her finger gently around the smooth, angular edge, fingers dusting over crisp fragments to pack them down. The last spark of magic catches the leaves aflame, and she presses her lips around the stem. Inhales.

The sweet smoke lights her veins like lyrium.

“Leona,” Cassandra lays a hand on her arm, “they may have perished in any case.”

The mage rolled the smoke over her tongue, and released it to the sky in a single puff of breath. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it?”


End file.
